


The Morbid Poet (A Sherlock Holmes Fanfic)

by Boopybogaloo123



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Art, Gen, Kidnapping, Love Poems, Murder, Mystery, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:25:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boopybogaloo123/pseuds/Boopybogaloo123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poems are sent to Sherlock Holmes portraying artistic murders. Women, miscarriages and obscene art. Who could be the murderer? Follow Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson as they're trying to solve this abnormal case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morbid Poet (A Sherlock Holmes Fanfic)

Chapter one written by Emil Karlsson  
Chapter two written by Karl Andersson  
Chapter three written by Sebastian Jönsson  
Chapter four written by Ercan Elmazovski

The Morbid Poet

Chapter one  
In the midst of our newspapers, I noticed a letter. Usually it is only a gratification  
letter from a past client, but this one was rather odd. It did not own a printed sender,  
which implied that it had been put in our mailbox by the sender itself. Not particularly  
odd, but it drew my attention. I opened the envelope and read the letter, as I sat  
myself down at the table again. I looked at Sherlock with a questioning gaze, and read  
it out loud for him.  
“Your nationwide perception,  
In gallery bestowed.  
Where art slumbers,  
and death awakens“  
I handed Sherlock the letter, since I knew that he wanted to read it by himself, more  
than once. After a minute I tried to reach his attention, as I was eager to understand  
what it meant. I assumed, and I think he knew, that this letter was not a gratification  
letter. It was not apparent, but I had a strong feeling this was true.  
“What does it say to you?”, I asked him.  
Not even a vague response was given to me though, as if he had not heard my  
question. I knew it would have been pointless to ask him again, since this oblivious  
display was only present during Holmes’ analytical excursions. I shuffled the rest of  
our papers and found another letter, although this letter had been sent from Lestrade. I  
opened it and immediately understood what the poem conveyed, and I mutely  
demanded to wake Holmes from his withdrawn behaviour. Just as I was to speak to  
him, he abruptly spoke to me.  
“This does not say a lot to me,” he said. “But I can see some patterns,  
revealing either confusing or morbid messages. Although interesting, I do not aspire  
to waste time on these current assumptions.”  
“Then maybe you should have a look at this message,” I said joyfully, sensing  
that he would criticize his current conclusion after having read Lestrade’s letter. “I  
know it will help you draw a more definite conclusion.”  
I handed him the letter, and after some five seconds he laid it down on the  
table. He raised himself from the table, having already finished his breakfast.  
“As was assumed,” he said with deceivingly humble body gestures. “One of  
the most obvious patterns of the curious poem was the second word of every row;  
nationwide, gallery, art & death. My best assumption pointed toward an act of morbid  
features, near or inside the National Gallery. It seems I was correct in my conclusion,  
as Lestrade asks for our help at a crime scene, at the National Gallery.”  
I sensed that he had drawn equally true conclusions from the poem before  
having read Lestrade’s letter, but I let it go as we prepared ourselves to leave the  
apartment. Holmes did not seem to have considered too long whether or not he  
wanted to inspect this case, although I assumed that this case was of high interest to  
him. He always was a sucker for peculiar cases, and this was no doubt one of them.  
As we reached the National Gallery, we were met by Lestrade and some of his  
consistently demeaning colleagues. We greeted him and he showed us around the  
crime scene. I had suspected a slightly peculiar case, but this was surreal. We were  
situated in a square room, with walls the length of about twenty yards. The roof had a  
large cluster of windows, shining down on the scene. All paintings from the current  
exhibition were still in place except for on one wall. An original painting laid in the  
corner of the room, and in its original position it had been replaced by a disturbing  
painting, constructed by a seeming amateur. The painting displayed a man and a  
woman, holding a baby without a face in one arm each. The woman had no head, and  
the man had no eyes. Not only was this imagery odd, but it was also painted in a gritty  
way, assumably with cole as the outline and what appeared to be blood as colouring.  
The blood had assumably spawned from the victim which laid underneath. At the  
time I only looked at the victim, but as I almost got into shock twice, I had to exit the  
room more than once.  
When I eventually got desensitised to the cruel imagery of the crime scene, I  
could register every part of it. The victim was a young middle-aged woman, strapped  
to a chair. Her head hung on her shoulder, with her eyes closed but mouth wide open.  
She wore no shirt, consciously set up by the murderer to show the open wound he or  
she had cut in her stomach. In her hand she held a doll, resembling a baby. I tried to  
connect every clue we had been given at this point; the victim, the painting, and the  
poem we received that morning. Back then, I couldn’t make myself understand a lot,  
but I knew that it was connected. It was a conscious construction, nothing other than a  
morbid artwork. I hesitated for a long time to acknowledge it as an artwork, but I  
realised later that it was nothing but an artwork, made by a very disturbed and sick  
person. What it all meant could be realised back then, but I was way to disgusted and  
shocked to organise my thoughts. After having collected my feelings, I looked at  
Sherlock Holmes. He was inspecting the way he would at any crime scene, but I had  
noticed that he took a while to get started with his inspection at all. Additionally, he  
did not seem very pleased with the inspection as he walked around the crime scene,  
judging from his ambivalent facial and bodily expressions.  
“This is not only immensely peculiar, but also monumentally morbid.” said  
Holmes. “You will have to give me more than a few minutes to let me make sense of  
this case. Watson, show Lestrade the poem we received this morning, and I will  
consider its participation in this large, deranged puzzle.”  
“A poem?” said Lestrade with interest. “Related to the case, you say?”  
“Yes,” I answered. “It’s just assumed so far, but its connections to this case  
seem very obvious.”  
“I see.” he responded while signalling to a colleague of his. “Before we  
continue with this case, I want you to please greet Mr. Albright here. He is, of sorts,  
Gregson’s replacement while he’s away. You see, Gregson went to the countryside, to  
help them folks solve a case. It turns out, expectedly, that they faced a case greater  
than they could solve. Alas, Gregson is assisting them for some time. We can’t really  
tell for how long right now, but he went away yesterday. Although for us, it’s  
probably for the greater good.”  
Lestrade started to reach the poem as I reached for Mr. Albrights hand. He  
reached for my hand too and with a tight grasp we introduced each other.  
“Good day to you Mr. Watson!” he said cheerfully. “I’m James Albright, but  
you should just call me James.”  
“Good day to you too,” I responded calmly.  
“Nice to see you and your companion Sherlock here today,” he continued.  
“This is but a strange case, wouldn’t you say? It took me about an hour to be able to  
stay in here for more than five minutes!”  
“What you say is true, although it is not as strange as it is disturbing.”  
“I understand your perspective, as I find the same feelings in myself. I was  
recently transferred to the homicide department of Scotland Yard, but I did not expect  
the cases to be this morbid.  
“Welcome to the act of not killing!” I said joyously, without any reaction from  
neither Lestrade nor James. Admittedly, jokes were not to be told at a place like this.  
“Have you been able to make anything of this scene?”  
“Not anything progressive yet, but we have some vague leads,” James  
responded. “But I see Sherlock is in his reputable act of deductive investigation. Do  
we know when he might have conclusions to present?”  
“If I know Sherlock by now, he won’t tell us too much until the case is over,”  
I responded.  
As our discussion was thinning out, Holmes approached us slowly.  
“This is far too queer a case, and this will not be easy to solve today,” claimed  
Holmes. “But this case shan’t be disparaged. I have collected all the clues I need here,  
but I need time to deduct effective information somewhere else, preferably at home.”  
As Lestrade handed me the poem again, he looked at Holmes worryingly.  
“No clues nor conclusions to give us today?” he said. “We are not only  
confused, but worried by the fact that this murderer is, presumably, still alive!”  
“Don’t worry Lestrade, nor should you worry Mr. Albright,” said Holmes,  
supposedly having overheard me and James introducing ourselves to each other.  
“This case may seem extreme on the outside, but in reality it is still just a murder.  
Watson, let us walk home, and please, you will not disturb me tonight. You know that  
I am the only man to solve this case, but even I will have a hard time figuring this  
out.”  
Lestrade looked at Holmes, then me, then he left our discussion hastily. James  
looked at all three of us quickly, with a stare less happy than before.  
“Well, good luck to you then!” he uttered. “I assume we will meet tomorrow,  
to crack this case?”  
Sherlock didn’t look directly at him.  
“Maybe, but maybe not,” he responded. “I rarely see reasons to cooperate with  
the police, and I don’t expect me to find one before tomorrow. We’ll meet again,  
when we meet again.”  
Sherlock Holmes walked out of the room as he finished his sentence, waving  
at me to follow him. On the way out I saluted to James, who nodded back at me and  
went over to Lestrade.

Chapter two  
As Sherlock Holmes woke up the following morning, I noticed that he glanced at his  
calendar and was surprised to see that it was the 14th of February, Valentine’s Day.  
Seeing as Sherlock Holmes did not have anyone particular in his life to woo, he did  
not take any distinct notice to it. I went to pick up the morning paper, and I noticed  
another letter with Holmes name on it, I instantly feared the worst and handed it to  
Sherlock Holmes.  
Holmes looked upon the letter and noticed that, much like the first letter, it did  
not have a postage stamp or an address, it simply said “For Sherlock Holmes” on the  
front side of the letter, which means that it was delivered to 221B Baker Street  
directly from the writer. Holmes opened the letter and it was another poem, but this  
time we both suspected that it might be a clue to another potential murder.  
It read,  
“You hammer me a passion,  
You smote my emotion,  
You bridge the gap,  
Between death & affection”.  
Holmes started to ponder, as he compared it with the first one, there emerged a  
pattern,  
“Watson, what is the second word of every sentence of the last poem?”  
Holmes asked.  
“Nationwide, Gallery, Art & Death” I answered.   
Then he saw it, Hammer, Smote, Bridge. It could only mean Hammersmith  
Bridge, as the previous murder had taken place at the National Gallery, the next  
location must be the Hammersmith Bridge in west London.  
Holmes and I quickly made our way to Scotland Yard in order to get a hold of  
Lestrade and his team of policemen, as we arrived at the front door we were greeted  
by James Albright,  
“If you are looking for Lestrade, he´s in his office” He said.  
A quick nod was given as we continued towards Lestrade´s office.  
Once we got there Lestrade was taking a rest as usual,  
“Hey!” Holmes said, “The murderer has struck again”,  
Lestrade looked worryingly at us and exclaimed  
“What, again? But it’s so soon.”  
“We know,” Holmes said.  
Lestrade gave a deep sigh and  
then he said “Well, lets go, where to then?”  
“Hammersmith Bridge.” We answered simultaneously.  
Holmes, Lestrade, Albright, and I quickly got into the carriage, and then we  
were on our way.  
While we were in the carriage, Albright leaned over to me and said,  
“You know Hammersmith Bridge, that where my wife proposed to me”,  
“Oh really, That’s an interesting place for it, although I´m sure that it was  
romantic” I said,  
“Oh, it sure was” he replied with a sad tone, almost as if he missed the  
moment. I leaned over to Lestrade and asked  
“Why does James speak so cheerlessly about his wife’s proposal?”,  
Lestrade then whispered to me “Oh, you see, she passed away not to long  
ago… Suicide I believe.”  
“ah, I will make sure not to mention it then” I said.  
As our carriage arrived at Hammersmith Bridge in west London at early  
morning on Valentine’s Day, we did not see anything out of the ordinary. The bridge  
was empty at this time, seeing as the daily merchants had not set off yet.  
“What are we looking for?” Lestrade asked.  
“A victim,” Holmes replied.  
“But there is nothing here,” Lestrade said, and Holmes sighed.   
Then after some time of looking around, we heard a loud yell  
“I THINK I´VE FOUND SOMETHING!” yelled Albright from across the  
bridge.  
He had located a body. There she was, pinned up between two supporting  
pillars on the upper left side of the bridge.  
“No wonder we missed her, she could have been part of the decoration,”  
Lestrade claimed.  
Holmes quickly got to work, he started by inspecting the body.  
“Female, middle aged, blonde,” Holmes said.  
Then he noticed that she was carrying a doll in her hand, not just any doll, a  
doll, which resembles a baby, furthermore, she seemed to have marks on her wrists,  
indicating that her wrists had been tied together for some time. She had been struck  
up on to the bridge, it looked almost as if it was an artwork of some kind.  
“Why has she been struck up there,” Albright asked,  
“It’s the murderers signature, the calling card if you will,” Holmes replied.  
We removed her from the pillars, and when we did, we found that she had a  
long cut in her stomach.  
“Just like the other case, she has baby doll in her hand, a cut in her stomach,  
and is put on some sort of artist display. It is no doubt that we are dealing with the  
same murderer,” Holmes said.  
We were inspecting the body, and all of a sudden Albright says,  
“Look at the cut in her stomach, it looks almost like a T that is upside down.”  
“Yes, and?” Holmes asked intriguingly.  
“Well, have you ever heard of a Caesarean section?” Albright asked.  
“Of course,” Holmes replied.  
Then Albright said “If you look close you can see that the cut has been made  
just like a Caesarean section, what do you suppose that means?”  
Albright looked smug, having just made a comment that in his mind,  
outsmarted Sherlock Holmes. Holmes took a closer look and noted that if this was an  
attempt to make a Caesarean section, it has been incorrectly done, so Holmes replied  
to Albright by saying,  
“Actually, it has been made to far up on the body for it to be a Caesarean  
section.”  
Albright stopped looking smug, and turned to a look of disappointment  
instead. Lestrade called out for James, and he quickly left Holmes and me alone to  
examine the body.  
While we were inspecting the body, another carriage arrived, it was Scotland  
Yard’s team of policemen, they were here to try and identify the woman, and to  
finally remove her from the crime scene. They started by closing off the bridge,  
asking people to take a detour claiming that there are plenty of bridges across the  
Thames and that they should just take the next one. After Holmes had gathered  
everything that he needed, we slowly started to make our way to the carriage.  
“So, what do you think, Holmes?” I asked.  
“I´m not sure. I have many theories at this time and it would take someone  
with a brain as developed as mine to comprehend my thoughts, something you  
wouldn´t understand, Watson.” Holmes replied.  
As we approached the carriage, Albright came running and asked me,  
“Hey, how about a pint after a good mornings work? We could perhaps  
exchange some ideas about the case as well?”  
“That sounds like a good idea to me,” I replied.  
Holmes looked at us and said, “You go ahead and do that, I think I´ll go in to  
town and do a little digging. I´ll see you tomorrow.”  
As Albright and I got in to the carriage, I saw Sherlock Holmes walk away,  
and I wondered what was going on in that head of his.  
“Oh well, where to?” I asked.  
“How about the Jack Horner on Bayley street?” Albright said.  
I replied by saying “Ok, lead the way,” and so we were on our way.

Chapter three  
We made a turn on Bayley Street and arrived at the Jack Horner. If it wasn't the loud  
hollers of the drunken patrons that caught my attention, it certainly was the clouds of  
opium steaming out of the back rooms. We entered the establishment and I soon got  
the feeling that I wasn't welcome in this environment. Maybe my association with  
Holmes had earned a bit of a reputation in this part of town, or James's occupation  
made the patrons all the more wary of him. James seemed unfazed by this however.  
"Care for a drink, Dr. Watson?" he says, with that uplifting smile shining as  
ever.  
"I usually do not consume in public, but since I am here, why not?" I said.  
Before I even knew it, a pint of ale was placed in front of me. Holmes may  
have wanted me to go home and focus on the case, but since that madman apparently  
had no use of me tonight, I figured spending the evening with James Albright would  
not be a bad alternative. James and I talked for the rest of the night. James seemed to  
agree with my frustrations with Holmes, but every other sentence James said, sounded  
like he idolized him. He spoke in great lengths about Holmes' decadent deduction, but  
he almost sees him as a braggart at the same time. A few pints later I suddenly started  
feeling drowsy.  
"Maybe I should make my way back to Baker Street" I bulged as I fell out of  
the chair.  
"I'll help you, Doctor" James said as he picked me up.  
For whatever reason I had gotten tired, James carried me out of the pub and  
into the street, leaving the loud hollers and opium smoke behind. The last I saw before  
passing out was the streetlight on the corner around Bayley Street. James had laid me  
down on the ground for whatever reason, and walked out of sight.  
I woke up in a cold cellar, handcuffed to a moulded wall. After trying to grasp  
how I ended up here, I noticed something in my back pocket. A bobby pin. I did feel  
something tumbling around in my back pocket before, but I just assumed it was one  
of my shirt buttons. Whoever had handcuffed me to the wall had done so sloppily, so  
I had enough reach to grab the bobby pin and pick the lock. I got up and investigated  
my surroundings.  
In the cellar were three paintings. The one on the right was a painting of the  
Hammersmith bridge, which gave me an eerie feeling as it was a crime scene mere  
hours earlier. The one on the left was a silhouette, but what it resembled I could not  
tell. It certainly wasn't a person, but there were symmetry in the outlines. The third in  
the middle was covered with white sheets. I approached the covered painting and  
pulled off the sheets. It was a woman, perhaps thirty years of age, carrying a small  
child in her arms. She met me with glaring eyes and a smile reminiscent of Da Vinci's  
Mona Lisa. The heavenly light casting behind her gave the impression that she was  
some sort of saint, or at least whoever made the painting idolized his subject. What  
stroke me was that she resembled the same woman who James found pinned to the   
side of the Hammersmith Bridge, although at this stage I suspected that the seemingly  
dapper chap didn't exactly "find" the body. The child, on the other hand, looked bleak.  
The greyish skin tone on the child made a stark contrast to the warm colours found on  
its mother, as if the woman represented life and the child represented death. The  
toddler's eyes glaring off into nothingness as its figure laid slumped over definitely  
gave the impression that it was dead.  
I was not sure what to make of it. If this is indeed the killer's residence, and  
the woman on the painting is indeed the woman found stapled to the Hammersmith  
bridge, then what part does the deceased child play in all of this? I considered  
grabbing the painting and delivering it to Holmes, but I was interrupted by the sounds  
of the cellar door creaking eleven steps above. I was forced to cover behind one of the  
paintings as my kidnapper had stolen my revolver from me. I can even hear the  
familiar sound of my gun being cocked. He knew I was still down here, and he was  
prepared to kill me should I attempt to escape. In hindsight I perhaps should have put  
the sheets back on the painting before hiding, as the missing sheets were the first  
thing my pursuer noticed as he descended the stairs. I still felt a bit drowsy, so I  
wasn't in the right shape to lunge at him from behind and wrestle the revolver out of  
his cold hands. It was then I heard him shouting "Shite!" as he noticed that I had  
managed to wrangle myself out of my prison, and it was then I realized that James  
was the one pursuing me.  
James paused his search and approached his desk. He took the pen and started  
writing what I assumed was another poem. I feared that he had committed a third  
murder and was going to use this poem to further taunt Holmes. I glanced at the  
paintings and in my mind started constructing possible murders he could have made,  
but without the poem to guide me it was all guesses. To my fortune James suddenly  
took off and ascended the stairs, leaving me with ample time to grab the poem and  
escape. However, as I collected the poem, I was unfortunate enough to read what it  
actually said:  
“While good people are brave  
The doctor cannot save  
From death that he forgave”  
I heard James making his return to the cellar and made my way behind the  
desk. I saw him still carrying my revolver in one hand and what appeared to be a  
telegram in his other. He seemed to be in a hurry as he grabbed the poem and made  
his exit a second time. I concluded that he was intending to kill me, but something  
urgent came in his way. I heard the sound of his outer door slamming, so I made my  
way up the basement stairs and peeked out the window to see where I was. I saw the  
familiar Baker Street barracks only a few blocks and my mind started racing. Was  
James Albright spying on us the whole time? Was Holmes even aware? I had to  
inform Holmes and Lestrade of my discoveries, so I took a second glance at the  
paintings in the cellar before breaking up the front door and making my way to  
Scotland Yard.

Chapter four  
I exited Albright’s house and made my way back to Baker Street so I could get a hold  
of Holmes. But to my horror once I got there Holmes was nowhere to be seen. I had  
to think of what to do next, the first thing I conjured up was Lestrade. So I planned to  
get over to Scotland Yard and inquire Lestrade on all the events that had occurred  
during the previous night and the current morning.  
I arrived at Scotland Yard and saw Lestrade sitting at his desk half asleep.  
“Lestrade! I’ve found out who the murderer is!” I blurted out to him.  
Lestrade not fully ready to wake up almost fell of his chair, but he was able to  
keep his balance and with a horrifying look on his face he asked me,  
“What did you just say?”  
“Albright’s the murderer!” I responded.  
Lestrade gave me a look of misbelief as the idea of Albright being a murderer  
was something inconceivable. I explained all the events that aspired in Albright’s  
apartment from the picture of Hammersmith Bridge to the painting of one of the  
victims. After I was done explaining Lestrade stood still looking down on the floor  
with a solemn look on his face.  
“I’m still not convinced that Albright’s the murderer. He could’ve kept those  
pictures and paintings as a clue for the case.” he said.   
I felt that Lestrade was already convinced but since Albright stood close to  
him he could not accept the facts at hand.  
“We could at least talk to him and let him explain.” I said.  
“Do you have any ideas as to where he could be now?”  
“If he’s not at home or in the office you usually find him either at the Jack  
Horner or at Hammersmith bridge.”  
We made our way to Hammersmith Bridge as it seemed more probable that  
Albright would show up there.  
When we arrived at the Bridge our prediction was confirmed to be true.  
Albright was standing close to the place where the second victim was pinned up with  
a Bouquet of roses in his hand. We got closer to him and once we were approximately  
ten feet away from him he saw us. The look on his face turned from a solemn look to  
the look of a madman and he started laughing.  
“I guess I’ve made a fool of myself. Here stands my third victim before me  
who managed to escape here to lock me behind bars,” he blurted out with a huge grin  
on his face.  
This was not the Albright we have come to know. The once calm, collected  
and very humble person have turned into somewhat of a monster, with heavy breaths,  
eyes wide opened and a grin that is able to put a chill down anyone’s spine.  
“We’ve figured out that you’re the one who murdered those women. Just give  
up and come with us,” I told him.  
Lestrade stood there petrified. “Is everything you said true?” he asked  
Albright.  
“Oh yes, I was going to be the one who trumped the one and only Sherlock  
Holmes. To make a case tough enough that not even he could solve. But alas, here  
you stand as a thorn in my side, able to escape and put my great plan to a stop,” he  
said with a tone of anger in his voice.  
“You’re coming with me!” Lestrade blurted out.  
Lestrade seemed to have come to his senses and was now able to think  
straight.  
“I’m not going to stay in prison and rot away. My wife is waiting for me, and  
I’m afraid I must join her instead.”  
Quickly he made his way up on the railing to jump in the water. Fearing the  
worst we knew that we would not be able to stop him in time. But just before he was   
going to jump another figure who had been standing on the other side of the bridge  
appeared, grabbed Albright, and wrestled him down to the ground.  
“I’m terribly sorry young man, but it’s going to be a little bit longer before  
you are able to meet your dear wife, although I’m not sure she’ll like to see what has  
become of you,” said the mysterious man whose voice I could recognize anywhere.  
Lestrade and I hurried to Holmes and Albright. Once we arrived we found  
Albright crying on the ground. Lestrade lifted him up and started to walk back to the  
carriage with the crying Albright without the need of an explanation of how and why  
he did it.  
“It’s so sad, imagine if his wife wouldn’t have died he would’ve been a good  
man,” I said to Holmes.  
“That’s no excuse. Plenty of people have lost their loved ones and been able to  
get back on their feet. Albright was a weak man,” Holmes said nonchalantly.  
As much as I could agree with Holmes statement I still found it sad. Not  
everyone is that strong, sometimes a little help can do wonders.  
“Now let’s go back to Baker street and I’ll tell you all about my little night  
excursion,” Holmes said.  
So we made our way back to Baker Street.  
“So where do we begin?” Holmes started.  
“Let’s begin at where my suspicion of Albright first arose. When we were  
over at the second victim everyone noticed that the victim had marks around her  
wrists. The first presumption made by Lestrade is that since the victim was tied up,  
the marks simply had to come from the ropes. But alas they were wrong. Upon closer  
inspection I was able to deduce that those marks came not from the ropes but a pair of  
handcuffs. This made my suspicion that someone from the police force might’ve been  
the murderer, hence the reason why I did not tell anyone about it.”  
Not really shocked that Holmes could make such deductions I remained quiet  
and kept listening to his story.  
“The day after, when Albright came to ask you to go to the pub, I feared that  
you could be the third victim. Even though I was not certain that Albright was the  
killer I still put a bobby pin in your back pocket as a safety precaution.”  
Shocked as to how he was the one who put the pin in my back pocket my  
mind could not conjure up as to how he thought that would help me.  
“So how would you know that a bobby pin would come to my aid?” I asked  
him.  
“Glad you asked!” he exclaimed like a little child who was happy that he got  
attention.  
“Since the victims had no bruises I believe that he must’ve sedated them  
before capture. But since he also had to handcuff them it was apparent that the victims  
would wake up before he killed them so if anything happened to you, you would’ve  
woken up before he killed you, use the bobby pin, and escape.”  
“That’s preposterous Holmes! What would’ve happened if I couldn’t find the  
bobby pin!” I yelled at him mad for taking such a huge risk.  
“Well you’re fine so there shouldn’t be any complaints now should it?” he  
replied.  
Knowing that this argument would go nowhere if I decided to continue, I just  
stayed quiet and kept on listening.  
“So when you decided to take a pint I did some extra digging. First I visited a  
lovely lady named Edna Albright. This as you might figure is Mr. Albright’s mother,  
and she gave me some very interesting information.”  
“So what did she tell you?” I asked, curious as to what Holmes had found.  
“Well first he had a wife who committed suicide not long ago.”  
“Lestrade had already told me this, but how does this tie him to the murders?”  
I asked him.  
“That, my friend, is an excellent question that I will answer right now,” he  
replied.  
“Mrs. Albright told me that his wife had a miscarriage, and due to the  
depression of losing her child she committed suicide.”  
“That is why he made the bodies hold a baby doll!” I exclaimed.  
“It is also why he decided to give all of the victims a caesarean section, it was  
most likely a symbol for miscarriage,” he continued. “After I bid Mrs. Albright adieu,  
I hurried over to Hammersmith Bridge only to find Albright in the midst of trying to  
jump off the bridge. I managed to stop him, and the rest is history.”


End file.
